


Jack of All Trades

by n7s



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Serial Killers, serial killer bruce wayne
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-05-06 10:55:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5414204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/n7s/pseuds/n7s
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Man kills, police catch him. Man is sent to prison. Isn't that how it always goes? No. Not in Gotham.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Till Death Do Us In

**Author's Note:**

> A serial killer AU because it's all the wrong ideas that end up as multichapter works. This is a different take on some renown Batman comic characters with hints and little easter eggs for the long-time fans, but new and re-imagined character introductions for the less experienced readers. A lot of things aren't the same, yet there's something very familiar in the air... Hope you enjoy!

“Sir, if I may have your attention for one moment,” the static voice came from the other line. 

The rain, falling heavy around him, washed the blood away as soon as it was spilled. He used to have trouble seeing in Gotham's moody weather but instead of getting protective gear, he kept doing this only when it poured, until he finally learned the right angles and when to blink between heavy raindrops. He stopped choosing strictly stormy nights after his first year—the coinciding and almost unnatural near-drought that burdened the east coast helped him considerably with that decision—but he still loved seeing clouds gather above the far city skyscrapers in the evening, while he calmly stood behind one of the mansion's many window displays. It was when his half-faded reflection smiled back at him on the perfectly cleaned glass. 

He took the knife from beneath his teeth and carefully carved the familiar by now path on the cold skin. 

“One second, Alfred.” 

He _did_ hear the nearly inaudible sigh but didn't say anything. His gloved fingers worked the stitches and flesh quickly, without messing the intended shape up. In under a minute, a small circle within a larger one appeared on the victim's palm. Victim, he thought, was the last word he'd call Anton Schott, but it's the noun the newspapers would print the next morning. They always did, even if two lines later they mentioned the “victim's” deeds of terrorizing the city in one way or another. Forgiven in death, even if you helped in child trafficking.

Taking a few steps back, he stared down at Schott's face and remembered the half-finished book on his nightstand saying something about various contract and not killers throughout history who felt it was only proper to say a prayer before or immediately after finishing a job. A way to let their gods know they were aware the act of taking a life didn't mean they considered themselves divine beings, that it was sometimes out of _necessity_ , theirs or their bosses, that these lives had to be removed. For the betterment of others, whoever those others were each time. But he kept staring at Anton, the way his skin seemed nearly completely blemish-free, the rain almost bouncing off his _perfectness_ instead of soaking him, and he could only think of the untouched crime scene two full hours before the police arrived: the children's bruised skins, the deep cuts and broken bones, and blood, blood, blood everywhere. No. He wouldn't pray. If his negligence resulted in Anton Schott going to hell, then all the better. 

“Okay, I'm listening.” He put the knife back to its sheath that was comfortably attached to his belt and stifled a pained moan from the sudden joint movement. He forgot that every time he did this in the last two hours, many little electrified needles, or what seemed like it, would spread throughout his arm, shoulder and back, relentlessly reminding him he had only mastered running on the roofs. Slipping and falling from nearly three stores up still needed some tweaking. 

 _Not so much the falling_ , he thought, _as the landing_. 

He gritted his teeth but didn't make another sound. He thought about punching something but that would only make things worse. It wasn’t time for more recklessness. 

“Master Bruce, are you okay?” The older man's voice didn't sound as worried as their first nights playing this game, when everything was new and scary and exciting and not at all familiar, but it was still troubled. Nine out of ten times he'd return home with more dried blood than actual skin to show and neither of them knew if most of it was his or not. 

“Yes, Alfred,” he lied, taking an already bloody cloth that was previously accommodating a deep scratch on his inner thigh, and placed it on his right shoulder. “What did you want?” 

“There are some... men here. Waiting for you.” His voice changed to general acknowledgment again, as if he was trying not to come off as overly cautious. Casual enough for whoever was listening to him—because someone _was_ listening—to not think much of the call, but alarming enough to warn Bruce about something, or someone, who was getting too close again. Gotham PD had picked up their pace lately, their newly-appointed Commissioner seemed to like tight, efficient and surprisingly not corrupted work like all his predecessors, but their attempts to clean the streets, at least the parts he frequented, were never successful. They could never touch him because they were all blind. He had made sure they were. 

“They claim they have highly important information that concerns you.” 

“Did they tell you what it was about?” 

“They insisted you needed to be face-to-face with them.” 

 _Face to face._ He rubbed his neck with his non-hurt arm, not entirely sure if he wanted the silent alarms in his head to go away. “Okay. I'll be there in twenty.” He took a last look around the roof, eyes expertly accustomed to the darkness. No signs of struggle because there hadn't been any. No windows facing directly to his position, little to zero lighting that would allow noisy Gothamites into his private show. Everything was in place. “I'm finished here anyway.” 

“Yes, sir,” the man agreed. “Just get _Bruce Wayne_ safely back home.” 

He brought the pointy hood down, the black mask covering his eyes and part of his nose still in place, and started moving, running silently despite the rain water on every possible surface. He soon became a blur in the late hours of the city. “I wasn't planning on barging through the door with guts all over my shirt, Alf, if that's what you're implying?” His voice came out as effortlessly as if he was standing still. 

“Of that I have no doubt, sir, yet reminding you has never hurt anyone.” There was a pause, then a quieter, “So to speak.” 

Bruce smiled just as he made the brief jump from one roof to another. Never suppressing his smiles—the honest ones and not the reserved kind for the curious and easily-fooled public—or feeling guilty in doing so when it came to Alfred. The weathered butler had seen him at his worst, he had _helped_ him get through some of it too, so he deserved more than Bruce’s normal. If not for Alfred Thaddeus Crane Pennyworth’s very close attention, caring and endless affection, the young orphaned kid who had lost his parents in that godforsaken alley all those years back, wouldn’t have turned out the way he had. And that way was far more stable than the alternative. 

“I shall make arrangements for your arrival, then,” Alfred chimed. “A hot bath is, I recall, a good remedy after a long day.” 

“Don't we have guests you should tend to?” 

“Oh,” he pondered that for a few quick seconds. “You're quite right. It's only basic human kindness after all I draw one for them too. Judging from their expressions, they're in dire need of some mental repose. Who would I be if I left them to their miserable fates?” 

Whoever was listening had apparently moved, if temporarily, away from hearing distance. Bruce felt a small pang gnawing at the back of his mind but decided to stop it early in its tracks. Not many things could alarm a Pennyworth and the ones easily to deal with usually involved less stoicism from both parties and more outright telling off from Alfred's part. Always in a British accent, not exclusively involving the Queen's English. 

“Stiff guns, I take it?” he tried to turn his thoughts into small, meaningless talk. 

“One would be inclined to say.” 

“Alright. Hold the fort for a bit longer. I'll be there soon.” 

“We all await for your arrival with bated breath.” 

 

⚔⚔⚔⚔ 

 

He changed in the car, a casual suit that fit Bruce Wayne's persona better and, more importantly, lacked all the blood and gore his previous clothes had. Three miles before he could see the proud mansion on the hill, he ripped the mass of black cloth to tiny pieces and burned it with odorless acid instead of fire so there wouldn't be any smoke or smell for prying eyes to notice and K-9's to sniff out. The rain stopped five seconds before he pulled up in the front yard, as if the weather knew new storms of a different kind were about to unfold, and he briefly thought how Gotham was like that, ironic and unapologetic, dominant to the point of bullying. Soaked black SUVs parked in a line right in front of the mansion's entrance left just enough space for the door to be visible, giving the feeling of being controlled, watched. Trapped. 

 _Trapped._ He hated that feeling. 

“Mister Wayne,” a rough voice came from the shadows towards his right the moment he stepped off the vehicle. There was just one light open, right above the door, and every other one that was supposed to turn on when movement was detected in the yard remained off. They had tampered with them.

Bruce, feeling even more uncomfortable with only being able to make half of the suited man's face, or just by the mere fact he hadn't sensed him there before the man made himself known—and he _should_ have—, greeted him with his best diplomatic smile. “Feeling at a bit of a disadvantage here,” he put his hand out for a handshake. “You know me but I don't know you.” 

“Everybody knows you, Mr. Wayne,” the man returned the handshake. Rough skin. “Gothamites are born and the first voice they hear is yours on an overhead hospital TV, babbling away in one of your many interviews.” 

“Not a fan, I take it?” 

“Call it tough love.” 

“Alright, I will.” He could now make out his face perfectly. Sharp features except for a round nose, thick dark hair with a few white spots on his temples. Early fifties. He hadn't slept for at least twenty-nine hours judging from the shade of color under his eyes. He could write an endless list on who the unknown man was yet he _didn't_ know him. “How may I help you, mister...?” 

“Agent. Special Agent Tyler Kendrick. FBI.” The federal agent got out his credentials in a swift move, or so Bruce thought in the lack of light, and held it up. He quickly glanced at the standard two by two inches ID photograph (a slightly younger man but the same cold attitude) and then the signature at the bottom right in old blue ink. Agent Kendrick had a sloppy handwriting but the careful carve at the end of his name trying to salvage the wreckage of a pen movement suggested a lot. Like the fact he probably tried to be a questions first, shoot later kind of guy but the key word was _tried_.

Bruce tried to wave all this information away from his mind. The important thing was he wasn’t GCPD.  “What's the FBI doing—” 

“A conversation better had inside,” he cut him off, gesturing towards the house. “After you.” 

He eyed him for a second more and pressed the remote on his keys locking the car behind him. “If you insist,” he said in a nonchalant voice and marched for the mansion. If he hadn't run this scenario through his head a countless times—feds literally on his doorstep getting closer to his nightly activities—he'd feel his heart working towards bursting out of his chest right about now. 

He heard the agent a few steps behind him mutter, “I do.” 

The door was ajar which he only noticed just as he pushed it open. Trying to mask the uneasy thoughts of not being on top of his game tonight—possibly the _first_ night in a long while—, he barely registered the smell of freshly cooked dinner in the air. He was rarely here for that. The welcome heat that warmed his cold nose and cheeks told him this was home, but the safety that usually came with such thoughts weren’t present. That only made him return to the same pattern of thinking. And Schott. For some reason his mind kept going back to Anton. 

“Ah, Master Bruce,” Alfred greeted him from the bottom of the stairs. “Kind of you to join us.” The two agents next to him became slightly alert when they noticed his presence. He could see their hands achingly aware of their holstered guns, how their index craved the comfort of the trigger, but they didn't move them from the formal position of having them clasped in front of them. 

He'd killed a bouncer who was standing like that just four hours ago. 

“Is everything okay?” Bruce turned to Agent Kendrick just as he was shutting the door. The feeling of being trapped had started becoming worse and worse. He could take them, all of them, even with their guns and larger numbers, but he'd rather he didn't. This was his home, Alfred was liable to getting hurt, time he wasn't feeling like wasting would be spent hiding bodies, rubbing blood off marble, coming up with good enough excuses as to why six FBI agents had gone missing right after coming to the Wayne Manor. 

Kendrick took a breath, like he needed to pace himself before opening Pandora's box. With two arms on his sides, heavy coat drawn back and fully showing his holstered gun and FBI badge, he said, “Your life's threatened.”

Bruce didn't expect _that_ sentence to come out of his mouth, which became immediately evident by the almost funny silence that filled the foyer. The three agents that had just appeared somewhere from the back of the house looked between each other with uncertain stares as if they seriously considered receding again. 

“Excuse me?” 

An agent coughed or stifled a laugh. Another one rolled his eyes. Alfred sighed discreetly. Kendrick, however, only straightened his back and put more soul into his words, ignoring his colleagues. “Death threats against your name have been made, Mr. Wayne.” 

Yes. He had gathered that part. “Who made them?” 

“We can't disclose that yet. We have leads but we're still investigating.” The man crossed his arms in front of his chest and slightly cocked his head. “Since you're a high priority target, the closer we stay to protocol, the safer ending we'll have.” 

Bruce showed his palms in a general gesture that implied this was surely not all of it. “I _would_ feel better if I could put a face to the person who wants my head on a stick.” The computer downstairs would do it in eleven minutes quicker than the standard federal database. And that was on the lower speed spectrum. If he felt there was real danger to him or Alfred, he’d have had results yesterday. 

“We know.”

He expected something more, anything than just two cold words, but nothing came, except for the same unwavering stare he had kept receiving so far. Maybe Tyler Kendrick was like that with everyone. Or maybe he just really disliked well-off mansions with two big pools, sparkling floors and impeccable feng shui. Alfred _was_ that good after all. 

“Okay,” he said slowly. “What makes me a high priority target?” 

“Is this a joke?” Kendrick asked, for the first time breaking the line that seemed to be permanently stitched on his lips. It was Bruce's turn not to say anything except blatantly stare. “Your _money_ makes you a high priority target, Mr. Wayne. You die and half of the east coast's economy topples off. We'd rather not have the same fiscal crisis after the Waynes' death in the eighties. As long as we can avoid that—” 

“And here I was thinking you cared about me.” 

“—we can then focus more on the _details_ of whose daughter you pissed off and why he'd like to see you six feet under.” 

They weren’t here for him. Not really. Bruce Wayne might have stirred up trouble with one of his many renovation plans for urban Gotham, or the imminent changes in the water supply and the newest regulations for processed chemicals… But nobody knew about _him_. 

He didn’t sigh in relief but he felt his muscles relax. Not completely, that was never an option, but enough to get in the swing of things again. The mask was easier to wear again. He felt Alfred’s eyes on him and instantly knew he’d noticed too. 

“I still don't understand why you're here.” 

“The threats were first made known to David Cain. He's the one who brought it to our attention. You're attending his charity ball at the end of this week, correct?” 

“Yes.” 

Though rarely on American soil and forever on some foreign, exotic expedition in the search of the perfect adventure, David Cain was one of America’s, let alone Gotham’s, largest weapon providers. There was more than a good chance the government-issued M9’s of every agent in the house, if not the coast, was Cain’s work. He had the President on his speed dial just because he was friends with the entirety of the White House’s Secret Service. Keeping a close eye on him and his secondary, less public activities was the reason Bruce had made sure Wayne was on that speed dial too. Keep your friends close and take the man whose day job provided your parents’ killer with the gun to murder them for golf every other Sunday. That was surely the saying? 

Cain seemed to have toned it down a bit anyway, and the charity ball was for everyone affected by the country’s flimsy gun control laws, so Bruce _wanted to_ attend, from the moment he had received the invitation. If not for genuinely giving money to those in need, then for the sheer irony. Alfred was quite surprised when he was told to put down yes instead of coming up with an excuse as to why he wouldn’t be able to make it. 

“He was sent multiple letters, received numerous phone calls that if he allowed you entrance, people would die,” Agent Kendrick continued. “A lot of them.” 

Bruce paced back and forth, just once, before staying still. “Then I'll just not go.” 

“We advised him so. But he insisted this is America and America doesn't negotiate with third-rate terrorists. Other claims were made too but they're not really relevant or appropriate at the moment. Besides, as Mr. Cain didn’t refrain from colorfully reminding us, you're one of the few people who can make a seriously substantial donation and not take a hit nowadays.” 

“You _advised_ him?” 

Bruce's comment would have almost come across as hostile if not for Alfred's immediate response. 

“With all due respect to our nation's greatest protectors and their undoubtedly sound judgment, but Master Bruce is well-weathered to getting threatened every other Tuesday about an upcoming charity event. It's the way it is.” 

“We're not talking about shareholders with a grudge, spending their 9 to 5 thinking about the downfall of Wayne Enterprises. The men we're dealing with don't return to their wives and forget about their resentment until the next morning.”

“Maybe we should find them some lovely women to settle down with then,” Bruce felt the corners of his mouth twitch to a half-hidden smile. 

 _If we refrained from grinding the gears of the man holding the handcuffs, sir_ , Alfred's silent look proposed. 

“Wayne, this is—” Kendrick stopped himself from saying anything further. His gaze burned into the one of the man in front of him and for a while, just a little while, he seemed only a few seconds away from going off with a string of some very delectable and highly inappropriate word choices. But he dropped his head and sighed instead. He muttered something just for his ears, took another one of his trademark deep breaths, and when he raised his head again, he was collected. Completely. Even more so than the beginning. “No matter your intentions of going or not going, this isn’t what we’re here for,” he spoke quietly. 

“Alright,” Bruce mimicked the tone, not completely intentionally. The atmosphere had suddenly become too fragile and tiring. “Why’s the FBI here, Agent?” 

“It’s too dangerous for you and Mr. Pennyworth to stay here, unprotected. Not after the level of threats we received. Like it or not,” and he said this in a completely non-patronizing voice, “you’re too important and not at all of an idiot to risk getting knifed by a guy who was lucky enough to find a rich kid’s house he has a grudge on a more of an easy target than a downtown bodega.” 

The mansion had more security measures than the Pentagon. Not that he’d tell the FBI that. But if there was indeed someone who wanted to bring Bruce Wayne harm, then there was a good chance the bush turrets encircling the property would take care of whatever intrusion was to unfold. 

“Neither I nor Alfred are leaving the mansion, if that’s what you’re—“ 

“ _It’s not_ ,” Kendrick cut him off with a lifted palm. “Even if I didn’t know you’re _this_ stubborn, I’d have collected as much by our conversation. David Cain’s party has many… many important guests. Especially ones involved in politics. If the guest list was to get out, as it seems to have, the amount of protection that’d have to be employed by Mr. Cain would be far greater than that of a private bodyguard’s reach.” 

“Mr. Cain hired the FBI for tea time protection?” Alfred actually sounded impressed. He didn’t show it, but Bruce picked up his slight expressions. 

“Yes. Yes, I guess he did, Mr. Pennyworth. It’s not how this normally goes but,” the agent shrugged, having started getting restless again, “here we are. And since Mr. Wayne is on the list, whatever his plans about attending or not may be, we have to make sure, if just for Cain’s sake, he’s safe until the party. And if we can find out more information about who’s issuing the threats while we’re at it—if they decide to show themselves here that is… then all the better for the investigation’s progression.” 

It started clicking in Bruce’s head, more slowly than he would’ve liked, that what Kendrick was suggesting involved the FBI, actual police officers who very much went against Bruce’s nightly activities, to stay around and patrol. Not just for a night—and a night was already too much—but for a bit less of a week, and maybe even more if the threats went on for longer. The law keeping its eyes 24/7 on a man who went out at night and killed wasn’t… ideal. The victims were criminals and Gotham’s most disgusting scum and always, _always_ people who absolutely and a hundred percent deserved it, but it was still killing and murder was just the same illegal. 

His next words didn’t make any of his thoughts known. “So I’m your bait.” 

“A protected bait, Mr. Wayne.” 

Bruce turned to look at Alfred who was less proficient at soulless reactions when it came to having a family member facing the prospect of getting thrown to prison for the rest of his years. He could see the weariness and worry. They had a brief wordless conversation about a million topics and yet nothing at all. Alfred’s eyelids slightly closed, as to show general retirement. Did it matter?

“Do I have a choice?” Bruce asked Kendrick without taking his eyes off the butler. 

“I’d have to insist.” 

“Right.” 

It must have been the already long night and all the killing he had managed sooner in the late hours, a bit quicker than his usual pace, but he didn’t try anything else to turn them away. It was just for a few days, he’d stay in David Cain’s good graces, and they could even catch whoever was threatening Wayne and all those people at the charity ball. He was good enough to be able to sneak past all the agents and officers the next few nights if he really had to (and he _did_ if he wanted to investigate this further), so as long as nobody decided to set up shop near the old clock next to the grant study that led under the house, things would be okay. They always were, they’d continue so. He was good at making sure they did. 

“I’m glad you decided to cooperate, Mr. Wayne.” Agent Kendrick extended his hand for a handshake like he had done outside, but his other, free one touched Bruce’s right shoulder. Bruce tried to swallow the needles that immediately shot up all over his back and side but Kendrick’s eyes caught the ached grimace. He didn't necessarily take his arm off as quickly as he could have. “Rough night?” 

“You know.” Bruce pretended to laugh, only he made it a bit more convincing. “Walk of shame, walk of pain…” 

“Ah. Bruce Wayne, always ripping out hearts, right?” 

He tried getting past that hint of something _more_ that had returned. “That’s the job description.” 

“Yeah,” Kendrick nodded. “Guess it is.” They held stares for a bit longer but he quickly added, “I’ll make a few phone calls but the six of us already here will do for now.” He gestured to the rest of the agents. “Cadde and Fuller, take point. East and south.” 

Bruce saw the agents nod and then leave outside without waiting for any further instructions or clarification. He listened to the directions given to the other three agents—all spots around the house were to have someone keep their eyes open at all times and radio in if something looked fishy—until they vanished out the door too. Soon, Agent Tyler Kendrick was refusing Alfred’s homely suggestions for some hot meal and a good cup of freshly brewed coffee. When he went for the door, he _didn’t_ look at Bruce. 

“Something’s wrong,” Bruce said when thirty-eight seconds had passed of his unwavering stare never leaving the door’s wood. 

“May as well,” Alfred agreed and came to a halt next to him. He looked at the door too, apparently seeing the same thing the younger man was so attentive to. “Can’t really do much about it now, sir.” 

He didn’t say anything and, for the first time in a very long while, decided to focus on his injury instead of the task ahead. He told himself it wasn’t that big of a deal but he didn’t manage to be convincing. He didn’t care. He looked at his right arm, flexing it to test the amounts of pain. “I fell.” 

“The surprise is truly overwhelming, Master Bruce,” Alfred said in a calm tone. He turned around and started walking towards the kitchen. “If you follow me, we’ll get some proper food in you while I stitch you up. Spicy pork and fennel meatballs coupled with some truly heavenly cooked pasta, if I may say so myself. After we’re done, you’ll do me a favor and spend at least fifteen minutes in the warm bath I’ve prepared. Downstairs or upstairs bathrooms, they’re all prepped. Mental repose _is_ everything, after all. And for the final curtain call,” he turned around abruptly and Bruce almost collided with him. “You’ll take the rest of the night off and _rest_.” 

There was disagreement rising in both Bruce’s eyes and throat but Alfred stared him down. “And _rest_ ,” he repeated more sternly. 

Bruce sighed. But listened. He sighed one more time, internally, when they continued walking, but he didn’t do anything that didn’t follow Alfred’s laid out plan for the night. He ate and let Alfred take care of his many wounds and agreed to allowing his arm some rest time by moving it as little as possible in the arm sling Alfred provided him (at least for a night), and then he clocked in thirty whole minutes in the upstairs bath because the warm water almost made him forget his name. 

And a bit later, when he made a mental note to congratulate Alfred for his very bright idea to send him straight to sleep instead of staying up late to analyze a million and one things on the computer, he didn’t notice the shadow by the window and he wasn’t ready to fight back when the shadow became two and three and four more shadows and the bag on his head got too tight and the two kicks in his stomach drew the breath out of him.


	2. Monkey See, Monkey Do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I believe this month JoAT turns 1 ever since its conceptualization so here's to that! Eternally sorry for the delay but life gets in the way. Hope you enjoy the little things in this one. :)

He only woke up because the headache upon opening his eyes was better than the dream he was having. This was the second time he had regained consciousness, the first one being a brief moment some hours after he got over the initial attack, and that was just to have his upper arm stung by something that made him fall into lethargic sleep. Now it was dark but not dark enough for the sunlight to stay out of his eyes and he could feel a figurative drill being driven into the back of his head. When they took his cover off, his eyes nearly screamed at all the sun the window to his right had to violently offer him.

They were at a diner. People passed by and ate and laughed and seemed to completely ignore a handcuffed Bruce Wayne sitting nearby. Which _was_ strange enough but then again they barely registered the more than a handful FBI agents that seemed to crawl all over the place, not making any effort to be less obvious what with their unholstered guns and tough surveillance looks.

He noticed the young man sitting at the booth table across from him later than he should have, his peripheral vision still kind of blurred as he counted the number of cops around him. Another fed, Bruce was sure, in his twenties, raven hair and bright blue eyes, mirroring him a whole lot, take for the very genuine and somewhat amused smile he was donning on his lips now. Bruce was absolutely certain he was not sharing that trait with him.

“Told you he just needed a few more minutes,” the young agent said in a satisfied voice, lifting his fist in the air and not taking his eyes off Bruce. The ginger with the abnormally big 'FBI' on his back standing near the table completely ignored the fist and just shook his head with an ineligible phrase, promptly turning his gaze somewhere else.

The waft of warm food caught Bruce's nose but he didn't pay attention to his stomach. The place smelled like all those 4th of July weekends his childhood memories were full of, when his parents would take him to a cottage house just outside Gotham, a place so green and calm it nearly felt like sacrilege to have humans trespass it, and spent two whole days just the three of them—Martha, Thomas and little Bruce—watching his father burn more than six steaks a day. The more successful Dr. Wayne was in the medical field, the less impressive his cooking skills ranked. No housekeeping or grandiose friends with too important standings in sight, just a family being together, happy and okay.

And okay. And happy. And together.

He hadn't celebrated a 4th of July in many, _many_ years, despite Alfred always trying to appeal to him. He deserved better, Bruce knew, so he always reminded him he was free to do whatever he wanted that day, but Alfred never listened.

_"We're family, Master Bruce. There's hardly a point in me celebrating alone."_

The young agent slightly frowned at the silence. "Are you okay, Mr. Wayne?"

"I…," Bruce started but stopped.

He was home. He was home and almost asleep in his bed when the window cracked. Wayne Mansion's windows don't _crack_. He knew there was something wrong faster than someone else would've gotten alarmed but his fast was apparently not good enough. There were other players faster and better at this game, and that hurt more than the kicks in his stomach or the handcuffs digging into his flesh or the still sore shoulder wound echoing steady waves of pain. Had they hurt Alfred? He had failed to protect him in his own home.

He'd make sure they knew how much he didn't appreciate that.

"Am hungry? You’re hungry?" the agent tried to help him along. "You must be, you’ve been out for more than thirty hours. Want some pancakes?" he gestured a waitress over without waiting for an answer. "Mary’s pancakes are to _die_ for."

_Thirty hours?_

"Where's Agent Kendrick?" he asked, voice raspy from not having used it in a while. He'd will it to be steady yet highly alarmed, because Bruce Wayne wouldn't be able to keep his cool after being kidnapped. Bruce Wayne was _normal_ , Bruce Wayne wouldn't have thought of eight distinct ways on how to get his handcuffs off him with a broken toothpick currently found on the floor. _Two floor tiles to the left, thirty-three degree inclination from the seat's northeast side._

"Oh right," the man shot up his right hand over the table, extending it for a handshake. "I'm Special Agent Dick Grayson," he introduced himself politely. "FBI."

"Where's Agent Kendrick?" Bruce repeated, not politely.

Agent Grayson let his hand fall, not losing his good spirits. "West."

The same red-head agent walked the few paces, unlocked Bruce's handcuffs and dropped them on the table in front of him, _with_ the key. Before returning to his previous post, he smiled down at him, freckles beaming under green eyes, making clear that they either deemed him not dangerous enough to make a move, or had faith in their skills and believed they could take him if he did try anything. He didn't know which one bothered him the most.

If they were FBI and weren't using this as cover, then everything was over. The implications could be horrific, and not because he'd end up in prison or worse. He didn't care about himself. All the contingencies were always about Alfred. Had they gotten to him? Kendrick and his party were obviously a distraction, some false sense of security about a threat they had, what, manufactured themselves to get Bruce to cooperate? To let his guard down? Well, it had worked. Way too easily.

"Kendrick's… indisposed at the moment," he answered, temporarily breaking eye contact to give the waitress an order of two large fries, coffee, and something about leaving the pancakes for some other time when the young woman seemed surprised he changed his usual order of "a mountain of pancakes with two sides of maple syrup". "Can't talk business when I pay more attention to my plate," he joked and she followed along, an easy exchange between old friends. Agent West smiled at her, _yet another friend_ , and she didn't even look at Bruce when she left. If she did, it wasn't a cautious gaze. He was just another costumer to her, the handcuffs not alarming or noteworthy at the least. She felt safe. This—whatever this was—was usual for the place. Bruce Wayne wasn't a danger to any of them.

If Kendrick wasn't here, it could mean he wasn't involved or they had simply disregarded him. Maybe he didn't even know about this at all but, not that it mattered now, Bruce wished he had taken his chances with breaking everyone's backs in the foyer, despite the potential mess and blood stains if things got too out of control. It was a better alternative to ending up here with no pawns to play in sight, the damn sun not doing him any favors either.

_Choose your battles better next time, Wayne._

He made sure everyone could see how upset rich Gotham protégé Bruce Wayne was by shooting more uncertain glances around him, trying to visibly keep his cool but not too much, fidgeting in his seat but also trying to hide it; all ways to come across as clueless and desperate to understand. "Look, if it's money you want—"

"We don't want your money."

"If this is about the Senator's daughter—"

"Please," Grayson threw his palm up to stop him. "Keep the billionaire playboy act for the tabloids. I'm here to talk."

"There's no need for rushed actions, we can all—"

" _Wayne_ ," Grayson warned.

His face changed immediately. The carefully implemented hidden fear and wide-eyed expression gave place to composed features, the fake trembling of his body stopped completely to the point of absolute stillness. He didn't pretend not to know where to look or if it was okay to meet the other men's stares. All the lines he had prepared about the resolve of his possible kidnapping in the span of less than a minute vanished into thin air. The only thing that remained in his immediate thoughts was Alfred.

They knew.

"So you dragged me to Arizona," he said in far colorless tone, leaning back in his seat, and agent Grayson seemed satisfied with the end of the charade. He looked out of the diner's window, where some cars were parked, and a bit further away, the wide road and the endless desert that went as far as the eye could see, sans the desert hills and mountains sparsely spread. "To _chat_."

He also noticed the couple, looking over what seemed like a map on the hood of a dark red pickup track. _Pretending_ to look over a map. He could make their guns' holsters under their clothes.

"What does the FBI want with me?"

"A whole lot,” Grayson smiled. "How did you figure we're in Arizona? No, you know what, never mind," he shook his hand dismissively, "I know better than to ask."

There was almost a vampiric grin on Bruce's lips when he blurted, "How about you start with _something_ before this diner makes the nine o' clock news for most horrifying crimes taken place in the southwest?"

He didn't blink. That's what got to him—Grayson didn't even _blink_ while every other agent was already one step from blatantly aiming at him. The chatter died down before continuing in the form of whispers. West didn't move but his body posture was ready to go on the offense. Even he, himself, had felt the harshness in his ears and would've normally thought twice before saying those words out loud, in broad daylight, without the hood covering his eyes.

"Are you sure he—"

"Yes, Wally," Grayson stopped his partner without taking his eyes off Bruce. "Yes."

"Right," the other agent said less certain but nodded. With a movement of his hand, he got every agent to stand down and they begrudgingly listened. The rest of the diner took cue and began talking loudly once more.

There were moments of charged silence between them as the waitress set the plate and cups down, clunks that practically echoed in Bruce's ears. She looked at the two men then eyed Wally West who just shook his head. She nodded and left, but the silence didn't break.

"Where's Alfred Pennyworth?" Bruce asked.

"He's safe. We didn't harm him. I made sure they wouldn't touch him."

"So he's your bargaining chip?"

"I know he means a lot to you. If you think I'd harm an innocent to get to you, then we have bigger things to talk about, Wayne." He was serious, no hint of irony or lies in his voice, and it alleviated some of the pressure in his chest. "I also know you mean a lot to him. I'd rather see this end well for both of you." He grabbed some fries. "As long as I have your cooperation, this can be achieved."

Bruce smirked, the snarling of his teeth barely hidden. "If you wanted my cooperation, you would've asked, not make up lies so you can knock me out and kidnap me two hundred miles from home."

"Hey, the FBI doesn't _kidnap_. And," he showed his palms as a sign of mild annoyance, eyebrows shooting up, "I'm asking you right now. Do I have your cooperation?"

He could take out West and the two agents a couple of feet behind him in three seconds, five if he wanted to one hundred percent avoid the other agents' fire. With Wally's gun, he could shoot the rest of them in another four, and leave Grayson for last since he clearly had seniority here and the information he needed. He could interrogate him and find out Alfred's location after everyone had vacated the diner.

Or could he? He didn't trust himself around him. There was something that told him Dick Grayson was holding back, that he was more capable than Bruce had given him credit, more than he purposely let on, and that he'd end up finding himself in a worse predicament that his current odds. Plus, that Wally kid? For some reason he seemed fast. Quite the reflexes from the few moves he had watched him make. Maybe he wouldn't be able to take his gun as easily as he'd thought.

Grayson smiled as if he read his mind and made a funny grimace. “You know, you try too hard?”

"Excuse me?"

"To make it look like your killings are random. Good and bad people mixed in because you just _like_ to kill. But that's not true, is it? No... Maybe it looks like it at first but there's a pattern. Gotham PD just never bothered enough to find it."

"And you did?"

"I tend to do that a lot. See paths others can't."

Bruce tried not to hear the part of him being relieved that, for the first time, he wasn't being just another killer to the eyes of authority. Because if he did listen to the side of him that felt good in that moment, then he'd have to admit he cared what the police had to say about him. What the media and people he walked by every day who didn't know about his night excursions believed. What Alfred probably thought when he had his back turned and couldn't see the pity sprawled across his face: the rich orphan that, despite his best efforts to provide him with everything, somewhere along the way something went wrong and little Bruce grew up into the monster he was today. And he _didn't_ care. This act wasn't for acknowledgment, but for justice. Muddy, bloody, worth-killing-for justice, but justice nonetheless. If he did it for any other reason, he'd stop being effective and that couldn't be allowed when he was the last credible contingency in the filth-ridden alleyways of Gotham.

"Shelley Keeps, your victim last November—considered one of the most productive all-around benevolent members of her community," the agent explained. "But she drowned her seven-year-old son's bullies when they broke his leg."

"She didn't."

"She—"

" _Didn't._ She thought she did."

"Right. Turns out Mario, Stephen and Anthony Sabatelli moved to Pennsylvania a week before she decided to host a party for Caleb's class. The kids that teased him that evening weren't the ones that hurt him. Glad you're not pretending I'm not right, by the way, saves us a lot of time," Dick smiled, lines easily forming near his nose. He did that often, Bruce noticed, _smiling._ "Kieran Collins, April twentieth—"

"You made your point."

Drinking from his now cold coffee, the same way Bruce's must have been by now, Dick nodded. "I know I did. I've been practicing the whole ride here. I've memorized three pages worth of names, back _and_ forth."

West nodded sorrowfully behind him, without looking at them. "He did. I had to listen."

"It'd have helped if you didn't keep repeating every word in a Schwarzenegger accent."

"I do a _mean_ Arnold, you just don't appreciate true talent, Grayson."

" _What..._ ," Bruce took a deep breath and closed his eyes, effectively interrupting them. The whole thing played out more like a ridiculous nightmare than a realistic situation. "Do you want from me?"

There was a long beat before Grayson finally crossed his palms on top of the table, fixed his posture and cleared his throat. In a sure voice, the words, "I wanna hire you," came out of his mouth but Bruce was sure they hadn't, because his brain refused to acknowledge them for the first twenty-eight seconds.

I wanna hire you.

_I wanna hire you._

I want? To hire you. You.

He broke down the sentences in his head as if it was a foreign language thinking he _must_ have missed something while Dick allowed him all the time in the world to process his statement, looking at him unwaveringly.

"I think you broke him," West muttered.

He always figured he'd end up locked up at some point. Not that he wasn't confident in his skills; he had made sure his training was nearly _perfect_ in order to be able to do what he did. But he wasn't that clueless to believe that in all those years, night in and night out, not even once would he not slip up. It was an untold truth that something would gradually happen and the police could finally nail him. Or maybe Alfred would end up breaking, not able to go on like this anymore living with a serial killer in the bedroom next door, and would come clean. So going to prison, getting the death penalty? Viable outcomes. Working for the government? That wasn't even a parameter he had bothered to input before allowing the computer to run the virtual endgame simulations.

"The FBI wants to hire me," Bruce repeated the words, ignoring Wally. "The feds," he said, "want to hire a serial killer." Maybe if he rephrased it a couple more times, he'd understand the words better.

"It lacks taste when you say it," Grayson said, "but yes. That's the gist. The FBI wants to hire Bruce Wayne. Playboy by day, serial killer by night. You're a walking Craigslist for things the government isn't willing to do but has to."

He put his hands through his hair, elbows on the table, head lowered. His shoulder was still throbbing, his stomach was steps from loudly growling, his head was spinning just enough to justify his uncharacteristic need to throw up. Had he been outright blind for so long? Did an entire agency know who he was and he had never caught wind of it? He had ways to monitor all the chatter going in and out from a safe distance, anything relating to his activities, and the FBI had never even _considered_ the case of yet another criminal in Gotham. Gotham was home to everything dark and twisted and downright criminal—yet another outlier was by Gotham definition yet another city standard.

How high was the probability that this was a very elaborate dream Alfred's pork and meatballs had caused?

"I don't understand," he muttered under his breath. He had the option to keep his cool, to seem recollected and capable of clear thought, but as the minutes past this seemed all the more useless.

"Half of DC doesn't either," West chimed.

He peeked from under his eyebrows to stare at both of them, two boys looking at him with borderline innocence, acting as if this was absolutely normal to them. "You want to hire me and your bosses don't even _agree_?"

"If DC knew, you wouldn't be here right now," Grayson answered calmly. "Don't give them so much credit, my impeccable observation and investigation skills are one in a million. Not every federal agent is as great as me," he quipped again with a smile but he turned serious soon after. "You could say it's a… local project. Need-to-know basis. Washington? Doesn't need to know."

"What does local even mean? The state of Arizona?"

"Gotham. We want you to eliminate someone who's a direct threat to Gotham."

"Who—"

"A very, very bad man. And before you ask why I care about what happens to Gotham, let's just leave it at _it's personal_. I know how much you love that place, if you didn't you wouldn't do what you do, despite the sheer recklessness of it all. We both share a common interest for the wellbeing of the city. So let me ask you one more time, Mr. Wayne." He stared him down. "Do I have your cooperation?"

Someone was targeting Gotham, _his territory_ , and he hadn't even known. He was so caught up in his own twisted sense of what's right and _how_ it's done right, going after criminals that didn't pack a punch or had true influence in the fares of the city, that he had lost sight of something bigger. He also didn't know how an FBI agent had figured out who Bruce Wayne really was and was somehow able to pull an investigation without higher authorities knowing what's going on. Why would he reach out to him instead of arresting him? Why would he keep his secret identity intact instead of using it as leverage? Why did so many other agents seem to follow him without question? And why would he even go to such lengths for a city most people used as a number one bad example? Agent Dick Grayson was either incredibly resourceful, or astonishingly stubborn.

Bruce leaned forward, something suddenly changing in the way he had approached Dick up until now. "How old are you anyway?" he asked, studying his face. "You can't be more than twenty-five. Twenty-seven if you blame good family genes. Do they allow recruits this young to lead their own cases, Agent Grayson?" He leaned forward, making the already unstable table tremble a bit. Dick noticed the ripples in his coffee. "Or do they just not know?"

Steadying his eyes into the other man's, stubborn blue against stubborn blue, Dick intertwined his fingers in front of his cup. "You're smiling," he pointed out calmly. "Are you enjoying this, Mr. Wayne?"

It took half a minute for Bruce to finally lean back in his seat and stop smiling. Looking at the other tables and costumers, buzzing bees caught in a honey prison, he only said, "I'm not gonna join your circus act."

"You make it sound like you have a choice."

"I do—"

"No, not really. I said DC doesn't have an idea about what's happening here but I _do_ answer to someone. The deal is you either choose to join our _circus act_ or go straight to prison. You're a murderer. We need your skills and the position of power you've accumulated, but you remain a murderer and that doesn't magically change because you haven't uttered the words yet. If the FBI can't have you help them, they sure as hell won't help _you_ , let alone let you walk out of their little prom. You turn them down as your date and the moment you step out of this diner, you're as good as colander."

Bruce arched his eyebrow in defiance. "Whereas the alternative is so much better." Outside, the couple had vanished and two different, local-plated trucks with muddy tires had parked in their place. At the distance, the sun reflected off something, a bright blinking glint filling the air and he ever so slightly nodded at the sniper aiming at him.

"It is. Alfred walks free and you have a chance to do time with a chance of parole, granted you go with the plan. Maybe walk away altogether if you play your cards right. America, land of the free, but not unless you do your part."

 _A slim chance._ "And you're okay with that? Me walking free?"

"I will hunt you down if that happens, so you'll never sleep with both eyes closed again," he said casually, relaxing. "But that's another story. You have to succeed first."

"You mean if I kill your target."

Dick shrugged, “That's part of the plan.”

"How do I know there really is a threat?"

"You don't."

Bruce felt his eyes narrowing at the lack of answers. "Who is it? Who's the target?"

"Can't tell you unless you sign on," Grayson picked up some fries and put them in his mouth. "Damn, these are good," he muffled grabbing some more.

 _Sign on_ was fancy code for saying "it's a suicide mission but you have nothing better to trade it for." He could still try to take them all on and make a break for it. He could die in the process if they really were as good as they boasted, or he could simply get away from this place. He'd never find Alfred on time and if he did, they'd have to live on the run for the rest of their lives. Certainly away from Gotham. Away from home. And if the threat was real and not yet another ruse, then home would stop being a word to him altogether.

There was hesitancy, and Bruce felt this feeling, anger or unwanted confusion or blatant annoyance rising, but he gulped it all down and asked, "What do I get out of this?"

"You mean my irrefutable charms didn't convince you? Alfred doesn't go to fed-max. You don't die." Gulping down the last of his coffee, he peeked at his watch. "Speaking of which..."

Not losing a beat, Bruce gave him an absolutely honest, if not _too_ honest, smile. "Am I keeping you from something, agent?"

"Sass and sarcasm," Dick gave an honest laugh and got his phone out, dialing a number almost blindly. "No, but your _partner_ is." He put the phone to his ear. "But hey, sarcasm I speak. We're gonna do just fine."

There was a very real moment where Bruce seriously considered spitting out, no drink or anything, just for the effect of it all, but his body was suddenly not listening to years of training for not being caught speechless or unprepared. This was the second time Grayson had managed that. In one day.

"My _what?_ "

Dick held up a finger as a muffled voice picked up his call. "This is Agent Grayson. I want confirmation on Todd's ETA. Package's affirmative and waiting."


End file.
